


When Friends Become Lovers

by Irollforinitiative



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Forgiveness, Love, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sexual Content, self hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:23:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irollforinitiative/pseuds/Irollforinitiative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When friends become lovers it is always a messy ordeal.  When one of the parties has just lost his brother, it is even messier.  Greg and Mycroft are best friends and a misunderstanding drives them apart. Something must give to bring these two back together; this time not as friends but as lovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Friends Become Lovers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Destroyerofempires](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Destroyerofempires).



> Gift for Destroyerofempires for the spring Mystrade exchange

Mycroft stared at the unforgiving black stone that bore his brother's name.  He'd been charged with the funeral arrangements and somehow the black granite had seemed like Sherlock. Now as he stood with the sparse group of people around the freshly turned dirt he knew he'd chosen well.  The polished stone was hard and severe and yet the soft curve of the shape of the headstone seemed to remind him of Sherlock's curls. Mycroft's face bore no trace of his thoughts as he remembered Sherlock as a baby.  When Mycroft had been fourteen and Sherlock had been seven there had been a terrible storm that lasted all night.  Sherlock snuck into Mycroft's room, his whole body shaking with fear.  Mycroft still remembered waking up to the sight of Sherlock's unruly black curls and the feeling of his tiny brother's arms wrapped desperately around him. Back then Mycroft could protect Sherlock.  He could hold him close and tell him how thunder worked scientifically to chase away the fear that the loud noise brought. But then Sherlock grew up. And the older Sherlock had become the more he'd seen their father in Mycroft.  Not the shouting, swearing, adulterer parts, but the stoic, arrogant, and often overbearing parts.  It had cause Sherlock to push Mycroft away as far as he could.  Mycroft had never let that deter his affection for Sherlock and still worked to keep in contact with is baby brother and do all he could to protect him.  Until the fateful day when progress on an important crisis had meant pandering to Moriarty.  It had meant betraying the confidence of a childhood spent with Sherlock. In that moment Mycroft had betrayed all the trust that a seven year old boy had put in him.  Instead of chasing the demons away he'd brought them to Sherlock's door and given them a key.  And now Mycroft stared at the grave that seemed to represent everything about Sherlock and it was hateful.  How could a dead piece of stone be expected to represent the vibrant and colorful life Sherlock led and deserved to still be leading. Mycroft's lips quirked down in a frown as another wave of self loathing filled him.

 

Mycroft's thoughts were interrupted by a touch on his elbow.  Greg Lestrade stood next to him, a sad smile on his weary face. "You need a drink. Come on." Greg's voice was rough from crying, something Mycroft sorely wished he could do at the moment.

 

"I do believe John need your companionship more than I do." Mycroft's voice sounded foreign.  It was smooth and even while inside he was a tempest.

 

Greg glanced at John who was standing directly in front of the headstone and just staring at it.  Greg shook his head. "No. John needs his best mate.  Anything else is just going to make him feel worse. But I need a friend too so come on, drinks."

 

Mycroft sighed and looked at Greg who was still attempting a smile.  He gave a short nod.  "Okay. But you are letting me buy."

 

"Shan't argue with that." Greg started off towards the sleek black car that Mycroft always was chauffeured about in.

 

Mycroft followed Greg and felt a small smile tug at his mouth. What had started as a strained and professional acknowledgement of one another as forces in Sherlock's life had become regular meetings to discuss the genius' well being which turned into monthly lunches to complain about Sherlock as well as work and life in general after Greg and his wife had finally divorced around Christmas. It was a strange friendship that had been formed before Mycroft even realized it, thus preventing him from pushing Greg away.  A decade of pushing away anyone that dared treat him well for fear of either giving away too much about his professional life or finding himself cast aside as he had been for the entire history of his romantic life had created in Mycroft a fear of contentment. But he was happy. Then Greg had suddenly made himself a constant presence in Mycroft's life and Mycroft quickly found that he was happier for having Greg in his life.  Even the ache of an unrequited romantic interest didn't sully the pleasure Mycroft found in his weekly meetings with Greg. If there was ever a time in his life that he needed a friend it was this moment and Greg was the closest he had to a proper friend.

 

Mycroft's driver got out and opened the door of the car for them.  Greg slid in and laid his head back on the seat, thoroughly exhausted.  Mycroft followed and sat stiffly beside him.

 

"I'm so tired of crying but I can't seem to stop whenever I have a moment to think." Greg's voice broke as tears slipped out of his closed eyes.

 

Mycroft's eyebrows knit together. "I am jealous. I haven't been able to shed a tear for all that I wish I could."

 

Greg opened his eyes and looked at Mycroft.  "Not at all?" his voice wasn't accusatory, just inquiring.     

 

"Not a one.  My own brother is dead and I cannot weep for him." Mycroft frowned and sighed. 

 

Greg reached out and laid his hand over Mycroft' hand which was resting on his knee.  He didn't say anything else but just closed his eyes again, tears still slipping out slowly.  Mycroft smiled and looked down at Greg's hand over his.  It was a simple gesture but just enough to reach the man that hadn't let anyone touch him casually in close to twenty years.  A small sound escaped the back of Mycroft's throat as his vision suddenly blurred with tears. Greg's eyes snapped open and he moved closer to Mycroft instantly, hugging the younger man close.

 

"There we are.  You can weep for him." Greg smoothed his hand up and down Mycroft's back. 

 

Mycroft pressed his face into Greg's shoulder as he let out a small sob. "He's gone.  Oh God he's gone."

 

Greg frowned and held Mycroft tighter, rocking back and forth gently. "I know.  I know he is."

 

"It's all my fault." Mycroft started crying harder, his breathing fast and a little hysterical. 

 

Greg looked down at Mycroft, a little frightened.  He'd never seen Mycroft like this.  Sure they had become comfortable enough around each other that laughter, smiles, and even grumping had become easy for them but this depth of emotion was not something he'd ever even considered seeing in Mycroft. "No you didn't. Don't even think that."

 

Mycroft sat up and sniffed, getting a little more control of his emotions. "No I…I told Moriarty everything for a break in an investigation.  I gave him what he needed to ruin Sherlock and now Sherlock is gone." He whined softly as fresh tears streamed down his face.

 

Greg shook his head and wiped away Mycroft's prolific tears. "Hey now, I know all about that but it's still not your fault.  I had the man arrested and started the events that let to his…to all this." Greg swallowed a knot in his throat.  "But that doesn't mean it's my fault.  John shouted at him and left when there was a fake call about Mrs. Hudson and when he came back Sherlock was on the roof.  But that doesn't mean it's his fault.  You can't blame yourself Mycroft.  It will drive you mad."

 

Mycroft sniffed and frowned, his tears slowing. "I know what you're saying is true, but I don't truly feel it."

 

"Then I'll just have to keep telling you." Greg nodded and pulled Mycroft into a firm hug. "I'll tell you until you believe it."

 

And he did. That night the two of them drank until they both started to smile again and stumbled into Mycroft's expansive flat, both sleeping on the couches in the clothes they'd worn that day.  In the morning Greg had helped Mycroft deal with the last of the business of Sherlock's death and treated them both to a greasy lunch of burgers and chips.  For three months the two of them saw each other at least once a day.  Lunches, dinners, drinks and films on weekends. Greg stopped spending Friday nights in his flat and was, instead, finding himself sacked out on Mycroft's soft sofa, a mess of empty alcohol containers around him as he and Mycroft slept where they'd sat while watching a film. Mycroft and Greg had become inseparable and the best of mates and for the first time since his childhood Mycroft found real pleasure in companionship and preferred to spend his time with Greg rather than alone. So it understandably brought a smile to Mycroft's face when his buzzer rang on the 13th Friday since they'd buried Sherlock.

 

"Gregory if that's you come up.  If it's not, come up anyway." Mycroft pressed the intercom and the button to unlock his elite and high class building of flats.

 

A few minutes later Greg banged into the egregiously large and plush flat, tossing his coat and briefcase to the floor by the door and carrying the six-pack of beer he'd brought into the kitchen. "Myc how many times to I have to tell you to call me Greg?"

 

Mycroft was in the kitchen pulling out containers of Chinese take-away that he'd picked up on the way home. "Probably the same number of times I will have to tell you to call me Mycroft.  It's two syllables. I desperately hope you aren't so lazy that two syllables proves too difficult for you."

 

"Yes but it ticks you off when I call you Myc and I do love ticking you off." Greg took off his tie and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his dress shirt.

 

Mycroft divested himself of his tie as well and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. Mycroft without a suit jacket was a rare sight.  Mycroft in just a waistcoat and shirt with the sleeves rolled was something that only a privileged few saw.  Greg considered himself lucky to be one of the few to see Mycroft so relaxed.

 

Mycroft took one of the beers and opened it, taking a sip.  It was his secret shame that he loved beer. "Yes well just for that I had them make your sesame chicken extra hot so you choke to death on the spice."

 

"Just how I like it." Greg chuckled and grabbed the Styrofoam container and a plastic fork in one hand and a beer in the other before heading into the comfortable sitting room.

 

Mycroft followed with his own food and drink and set both down to turn on the massive television and put in the next in the series of old musicals they were watching their way through.  After clicking play on the title screen of "Singing in The Rain," Mycroft sat on the opposite end of the sofa as Greg and started to eat, both in a comfortable silence of food and film, Mycroft's grey cat sleeping quietly between them.

 

As was customary, once they'd finished eating and their first round of drinks Greg went and fetched them more and they started to talk about their week.  Greg took a long drink of his second beer and sighed. "I went on a date this week."

 

Mycroft looked over at him, eyes wide with surprise. "A date?"

 

"Yeah. My first since Jeanie and I split." Greg nodded, eyes unfocused and staring into space.

 

Mycroft pushed down the pang of jealousy and turned a little to face Greg. "What brought the urge on? Just felt like it was time?"

 

Greg shook his head. "Jeanie's moving in with one of the blokes she shagged while we were married. I just got desperate."

 

"Who was it?" Mycroft's curiosity was piqued.

 

Greg finally looked over at Mycroft and shifted a little so they were facing one another. "You know that bloke at the sandwich shop where we got lunch last week that flirted with me so much? Him."

 

Mycroft's eyebrows rose and he nodded.  He'd long suspected Greg didn't have any real preference for one gender above another but this was the first confirmation he'd received of it. When Greg had told stories of ex lovers they were all either female or unspecified. Mycroft's were all men so he'd suspected Greg omitted the men from his stories so as not to give Mycroft the impression that he was flirting.  "He's rather cute. A bit young though."

 

Greg chuckled. "I effectively come out to you and your response is to criticize the age difference?"

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Gregory you are speaking to a well known poof of the highest order. The concept of two men on a date will never shock me. And goodness knows you're not subtle.  You do tend to stare at men's arses when they're attractive."

 

Greg grinned and chuckled. "I think that may be the first time I've ever heard you swear."

 

"Well fuck all it's about time." Mycroft grinned wide and enjoyed the ability to let the ice-man slip away and the boy he was before his father died come out.

 

Greg shook his head. "I suppose so.  And I thought I was being subtle about the bum staring.  Seems I'm rather found out."

 

Mycroft smiled. "Yes. How dare you show interest in anyone.  You're supposed to be old and shriveled up and lonely like me."

 

"Says the man who is four years younger than me.  But I do know one thing that will make us both feel better. Tequilla." Greg stood and smiled. 

 

Mycroft stood and followed him into the kitchen. "I don't have any, I'm sorry."

 

Greg smiled and pulled a bottle out of the cabinet.  "Yes you do."

 

"Where did that come from." Mycroft stared at the bottle as if it had magically appeared. 

 

"I brought it a few weeks ago but forgot about it until now." Greg fetched small glasses and poured them each a drink.  "There we are.  To being old."

 

They both drank. And drank.  And toasted. And drank.  A half hour later found them both leaning on the counters of Mycroft's kitchen and giggling like children.

 

"But…'m glad you're gettin some.  You deserve it." Mycroft slurred and giggled.

 

Greg snorted out a laugh. "'M not gettin any yet.  An you deserve it too. Why don you date? You could have any bloke you want'd."

 

Mycroft shook his head and sighed. "Not really.  'Sides I tend to prefer bein alone to bein with most people.  I hate people."

 

"You don hate me." Greg smiled at Mycroft and licked his lips. 

 

Mycroft looked at Greg and felt his smile slip away.  He stared at Greg's lips and moved forward slowly.

 

"What're you doin?" Greg asked but didn't move away.

 

"This." Mycroft kissed Greg softly for just a moment before pulling away, cheeks red.

 

Greg stared at Mycroft for a moment before frowning deeply. "I…I have to go."

 

Mycroft's eyes went wide as Greg fled the kitchen, grabbing his coat, tie, and briefcase as he disappeared out the door before Mycroft even had a chance to speak.  Suddenly the flat was silent and Mycroft rushed over to the window just in time to see Greg slipping into a cab.  The loss hit Mycroft all of a sudden and he sat heavily on the floor.  He'd ruined it. He'd lost the best friend he'd had in a very long time by giving in to the wishes of his cock.  He'd accosted Greg and ruined everything.  All Mycroft wanted to do was to call Greg and apologize but he didn't have the courage to do so.  With the self loathing of his own cowardice in his throat, Mycroft drug himself to his feet and up to his bed.

 

Anthea arrived in the morning.  Mycroft was still in bed, wearing his oldest pair of sweatpants and a soft undershirt.  She frowned and shook her head.

 

"Sir do you plan on getting up and actually calling him or will you continue to wallow in self pity." She crossed her arms. 

 

Mycroft pulled the covers up higher.  "Today is for pity. Tomorrow I will face reality.  Allow me my heartbreak today."

 

Anthea nodded sadly and sighed. "I'll have some food sent over later. If there is anything I can do."

 

Mycroft held out his phone. "Hold on to this until Monday.  I cannot bear it if he calls."

 

Anthea took the phone and quit the room to leave Mycroft to his sadness.  Twenty-four hours. That is how long Mycroft allowed himself to grieve for the loss of a friend and object of affection. After twenty-four hours he got out of bed and showered.  Mycroft spent the next twenty-four hours reminding himself of who he was. Old photos and his favorite books. This was Mycroft's way of dealing with heartache. This is what he would have done after Sherlock's funeral if Greg hadn't been there.  It was a subtle balance of bleeding off enough hurt that he could think and then shoving the rest below a thick slab of ice and propriety. It got harder every time he did it and by Monday morning Mycroft remembered why he'd stopped allowing himself to seek companionship.  The loss of it so outweighed the joy it brought that it was hardly worth the effort. 

 

With a stiff smile Mycroft accepted his phone back from Anthea in the car on Monday and thanked her. "Any calls?"

 

"He says he's sorry and to call him," was her only response, her eyes still on her blackberry.

 

Mycroft raised a single eyebrow. "Hardly. He made his feelings known.  I don't feel it necessary to coddle him through expressing them a second time. Now then, with whom am I meeting today?"

 

Just like that the man Mycroft had been for the past three months slipped away and was replaced with the man he'd become out of necessity. He didn't call Greg back. It was nearly a month later when he finally saw the Detective Inspector again at the scene of a crime.  Greg had stared at him and tried to talk.  Mycroft had only smiled kindly and declined any invitations for socialization. The entire exchanged had left Greg feeling confused and alone and Mycroft with a severe case of indigestion that tried rather hard at playing itself off like heartache.

 

A full two months later was the first time Mycroft allowed himself to think on Greg again.  He was in his personal study at the Diogenes Club and the same feeling of self loathing overcame him.  Greg had been his friend. Greg had trusted him.  And then he'd gone and violated that trust by kissing Greg.  He'd taken something pure and comfortable and made is base and sexual.  Mycroft couldn't even imagine what Greg thought of him and didn't want to.  Of course Greg wanted to be friends still.  To play it off as a drunken mishap.  But it wasn't.  Every smile.  Every night on the sofa sacked out after a film.  Every lunch Mycroft had spent longing to reach out and touch Greg.  He'd gotten so much more than the pleasure of companionship when Greg would hug him or smile at him.  It was a violation of Greg that he'd sat on the sofa and watched Greg sleep, dreaming of the chance to hold Greg all night. Mycroft drank deeply of his brandy and grit his teeth as it burned his throat.  He deserved the burn and he deserved so much more.

 

"Please tell me you're not going to cry." A silky voice came from Mycroft's private coat closet.  A voice he'd not heard in what felt like ages but that he would recognize no matter what for the rest of his life.

 

Mycroft's glass fell to the carpet and spilled it's contents as he turned to stare at the figure emerging from his closet. 

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Close your mouth Mycroft, you suspected. And if you didn't then you really are as dumb as I thought."

 

Mycroft closed his mouth and glared. "Suspicions can only do so much to console the fact that your only living relative is dead."

 

"It wasn't your fault, you know.  So stop taking credit." Sherlock moved to sit on the edge of Mycroft's desk. 

 

Mycroft was still reeling but Sherlock was there and alive. Reason and logic could only do so much until Sherlock decided to tell him what happened. Until then he had to believe something difficult but right before him. "Why? That's all I want to know. Why did you do it."

 

Sherlock looked down. "He was going to kill John," he paused and spoke quickly, "and Mrs. Hudson and Greg as well."

 

Mycroft looked up. "He was going to kill Gregory?"

 

"Yes.  I've dealt with his sniper. And Mrs. Hudson's.  But I need your help to deal with John's." Sherlock frowned in thought.

 

Mycroft's eyebrow raised. "You do? What can I do?"

 

A knock sounded on the door and Sherlock stood up. "I will contact you again." he slipped into the closet that Mycroft knew very well contained an escape tunnel to the outside. 

 

Mycroft didn't hear a single word that the Prime Minister's assistant said.  He felt like a boat adrift on the open ocean with no way to control its movements.  There was only one person he knew he could turn to.  Even if it meant being forced to talk about that kiss, he needed Greg.  Mycroft gathered his things and rushed to New Scotland Yard, ignoring the assistant who was still speaking to him.

 

Mycroft burst into Greg's office while he was in the midst of a pile of paperwork.  Greg looked up with wide eyes and frowned.

 

"What are you doing here? What's wrong?" Greg stood, instantly recognizing the panic below the surface of Mycroft's face. He reached out and gripped Mycroft's forearm. "Myc you're scaring me. What's wrong?"

 

"I told you not to call me that." his voice was distant and quiet. After a moment Mycroft pursed his lips and finally met Greg's eyes. "Sherlock is still alive."

 

Greg frowned. "Mycroft I know you want to think that. God knows I do as well but he's not.  He's dead."

 

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. "Don't be dumb.  You've suspected it as much as I have I know that. But that was all, suspicion. Until he showed up at the Club today in my personal office."

 

Greg's face drained. "What? He…he's alive?" his grip on Mycroft's arm changed from stabilizing Mycroft to holding himself up.

 

Mycroft held Greg steady. "Sit, Gregory.  He's alive and he did it to save you, John, and Mrs. Hudson."

 

"Not you?" Greg frowned and leaned against his desk.

 

Mycroft shrugged. "He doesn't consider me a friend and his friends were in danger."

 

Greg shook his head, his eyes wide. "We have to tell John.  God I've had to clear all the rope out of the goddamn flat. I knew they were close but he…we have to tell him."

 

Mycroft nodded and sighed. "That was my first thought too.  But that's why I came here. Sherlock said that he's dealt with your sniper and Mrs. Hudson's sniper but not John's.  It may not be safe."

 

"I had a sniper?" Greg got pale again. "Johnson."

 

"What?" Mycroft frowned.

 

"We had a new recruit named Johnson on my team.  He disappeared about three weeks after Sherlock…well I guess since he didn't actually die."

 

Mycroft frowned deeply, hating the idea of Greg in danger. "We need to talk to Sherlock. Come on." he turned and made for the door.

 

"Hold on." Greg stood, "where is he? How are we going to find him?"

 

Mycroft smiled.  "I know my brother.  He's in my flat."

 

"Very well. Lead on but…" he caught Mycroft's arm, "when this is dealt with we need to talk."

 

"I am fully aware. And much as I hate…talking, I will do so without a fuss." Mycroft smiled tightly and kept walking, pulling his arm out of Greg's grip.

 

Greg sighed and followed him to the sleek black car.  Soon they found themselves at Mycroft's building and Mycroft couldn't help remember the last time they'd been there together. He blushed a little as he opened the door. Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen, eating everything in sight.

 

"It's good to see you eating." Mycroft snipped at Sherlock as they came in.

 

"Holy shit." Greg stared at him.

 

Sherlock glanced at Greg. "Your boyfriend is about to faint."

 

"He's not my…" Mycroft started to shout at Sherlock when he noticed how pale Greg was. Just in time he stepped close to hold Greg upright as he swayed. 

 

"No his boyfriend you arse." Greg mumbled as his head swam.

 

Sherlock sighed. "You can't tell John."

 

"How does he always do that?" Greg was starting to regain his balance and glared at Sherlock.

 

Mycroft smiled softly at him. "Because it's the only reasonable explanation for both you and I seeking him out immediately while you're still struggling to process everything."

 

Greg nodded as he stood up on his own, color back in his cheeks. "Okay.  I suppose so. But you have to tell him Sherlock.  You have to."

 

Sherlock looked down. "I know. Trust me I know.  If all goes according to plan I will have John's sniper dealt with tomorrow and I will tell him immediately." he got quiet, "But I have to be the one to do it."

 

Mycroft smiled and nodded, offering his hand to Sherlock. "Very well. For what it's worth you have my blessing. Be safe."

 

"For what it's worth you have mine." Sherlock stepped forward and took Mycroft's hand in both of his, "I will be. I shall contact you when this is finished."

 

Mycroft nodded and watched him go, deflating a little as the door to his flat was closed, leaving him and Greg alone. Greg shook his head and sat heavily in one of the bar chairs that Mycroft had.

 

"Holy shit." Greg ran a hand across his face.

 

Mycroft nodded absently. "Agreed."

 

Greg shook his head. "Sherlock's alive."

 

"He is." Mycroft couldn't help the grin that spread across his face.

 

"I told you it wasn't your fault."

 

Mycroft looked up at Greg and smiled softly.  "Yes you did.  And it seems you were right. Thank you for convincing me of that. Had you not I've no idea what kind of state I would be in now."

 

Greg nodded. "My pleasure. So are you talking to me again?"

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and a wary look crept onto his face. "I was never not talking to you.  I was merely…making things easier."

 

"How is kissing me then severing all connection making things easier?" Greg crossed his arms.

 

Mycroft only sighed and schooled his face and emotions back to where they belonged. "I was preventing the necessity of a drawn out and awkward discussion wherein you are forced to kindly but firmly express your friendship to me and nothing more.  I prevented us from a few months of strained friendship only to cease talking out of ease.  I truly did make things easier."

 

"But that's not how it was going to happen." Greg scoffed a little, feeling rather indignant that Mycroft had decided to control their mutual future for the both of them.

 

Mycroft took a deep breath and shook his head, acting as though he were dealing with an insolent child. "Gregory, in a moment of drunken abandon I acted on much more than three months worth of repressed sexual attraction towards you. I violated the bonds of our friendship by admitting to feeling something much more base towards you.  And you responded poorly.  You fled."

 

Greg stared at him, mouth open a little in anger. "I responded poorly? _I_  responded poorly?!"

 

"Yes you did."

 

"You kissed me out of the blue after seeming to either miss or ignore every time I ever flirted.  Every touch was accepted but not reciprocated.  Every wink was ignored.  Every bloody naughty joke was politely laughed at and laughed off. I didn't know what to think. You were either too drunk and just needy and I couldn't take that I fancy you far too much.  So I ran to get air. And I called a few hours later and apologized and wanted to get breakfast Saturday so I could explain but I didn't hear from you. You cut me off." Greg stood to pace the kitchen, half shouting. 

 

Mycroft's ire began to raise as well. "You're being a fool you never flirted.  You treated me like men are supposed to treat friends.  And yes, I didn't answer but that's because I spent Saturday in bed trying to deal with the crushing heartache of once again realizing the person I want doesn't want me back!"

 

"I did flirt and I bloody do want you back!" Greg shouted at Mycroft, still pacing.

 

"The why the bloody hell didn't you tell me that!" Mycroft's mask had fallen away and his fear and anger were written across his entire body.

 

Greg grit his teeth and felt the damn of anger and emotion inside him break. "Because you're not supposed to fall in love with a man while you're comforting him over the loss of his brother.  It's not right. It's fucked up but I did it anyway."

 

Mycroft's face fell and he stared at Greg. "You love me?"

 

Greg looked down, feeling empty after the release of that fact. "Yeah…I do."

 

"Gregory, I love you too."

 

"I told you to call me Greg, Myc." Greg looked up and smiled a little, stepping closer to Mycroft.

 

Mycroft blushed and chuckled. "You have to understand how it felt to have you run after I kissed you."

 

"I do.  It was a mistake and I'm sorry but you didn't talk to me. You cocked up too." Greg reached out and held both of Mycroft's forearms.

 

"I'm sorry.  I was scared and…it's easier to hide." Mycroft glanced down at Greg's hands and smiled.

 

"It may be easier but it's much less fun." Greg chuckled.

 

Mycroft let out a nervous chortle as well and looked up to Greg's eyes. "So…what now?"

 

"Now I kiss you like I should have that night and neither of us run." Greg smiled but didn't move.

 

Mycroft nodded. "I was drunk and needy, yes. But I knew what I was doing."

 

"But I didn't know that. I didn't want to take advantage and I wanted to lose you even less."

 

Mycroft nodded and smiled and little before glancing at Greg's mouth. "Okay."

 

Greg smiled and leaned forward to meet Mycroft's mouth.  It was a warm and soft under his own and so much better than he'd dreamed all those nights he'd spent alone, pining for the man that had become his best mate.  Mycroft smiled a little and pulled away after a moment.

 

"This is much more enjoyable when you are actually kissing back instead of drunk and scared."

 

Greg chuckled and kissed him again slowly and little bit deeper. "Now you know: I don't like surprises."

 

"I'll have to remember that for the future." Mycroft smiled and slipped his hands into Greg's hair, kissing him again.

 

The kissing grew heated and soon Mycroft found himself divested of all his clothing and gripping Greg's shoulders as he cried out in pleasure, Greg's own moans muffled into Mycroft's shoulder. As they lay there sweaty and still joined Mycroft started giggling. After a moment Greg lifted his head.

 

"Please tell me your giggling has nothing to do with the fact that I just fucked you into the bed. I'm not sure my ego could take that."

 

Mycroft shook his head and pressed Greg's sweaty hair off his forehead. "No. I'm just realizing that we will forever be able to thank Sherlock for getting us together as his arrival forced us to speak again."

 

Greg frowned for a moment before breaking out in laughter. "Oh god please let me thank him for getting me into his brother's bed.  Please I want to see the expression on his face."

 

Mycroft stifled a wince as Greg pulled out and lay next to him. He pulled Greg close and kissed his forehead. "Only if I get to be the one to tell him that we're dating and in love."

 

"We're dating?" Greg glanced up at Mycroft, face expectant.

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Gregory we're naked in my bed post-coital and not even an hour ago admitted to loving one another. We're dating."

 

Greg smiled. "Perfect.  I do love you.  I'm sorry I was a twat."

 

Mycroft kissed him softly. "I'm sorry I was an arse."

 

Greg frowned. "And?"

 

"And I love you more than I thought possible to love someone whom you've only shagged once and kissed a handful of times." Mycroft kissed Greg firmly for emphasis. 

 

Greg giggled and nodded. "Perfect."


End file.
